By the time Bera's boat appeared below the Eastern Air Temple, I'd managed to convince myself that my new method of training was either going to make me a much better firebender or give me an unusually organized collection of imaginary failures. I'd spent the morning rehearsing Mara's basic stance while seated beside the Hall of Whispering Winds, with the restored bells sounding faintly behind my closed eyes. Every time my imaginary shoulder rose too high, I started again, and every time the imagined flame grew beyond anything I could actually produce, I cut the exercise short. The results were less entertaining than the battles I could have invented, but I remembered more of them afterward, which seemed to be the point. Unfortunately, remembering a movement still didn't guarantee that my legs would agree to perform it.
I discovered this when I stood up and tried the sequence on the terrace. The first turn was comfortable, and I shifted my weight without the awkward little hop that used to accompany the movement. On the second, my rear foot caught against a raised seam in the stone, and the elegant firebender I'd imagined became a thirteen-year-old boy windmilling his arms to avoid falling on his face. I caught myself against a column and looked around to make sure Pathik hadn't witnessed the performance. He hadn't, although a bird on the roof seemed to regard me with some interest.
Pathik found me there a little later, carrying a folded cloth and the sort of expression he wore when he'd caught me doing something I was supposed to be doing. He watched me finish before announcing that Bera had come to the lower station and was sailing to Keshan that morning. I lowered my hands so quickly that he laughed, although I tried to look as though I'd merely reached the natural end of my practice. We had spoken about visiting Mara again, and I had several questions written down for her, including one concerning how long I should hold my weight over the front foot. More importantly, I wanted to see whether I could make a flame last four breaths without getting so pleased with myself that I forgot the fourth.
"You needn't look so surprised," Pathik told me as we crossed the courtyard. "I said we would return when an opportunity presented itself, and Bera is very good at presenting opportunities." I told him I hadn't been surprised, merely pleased, and he glanced at the bag I was already carrying. The bag contained my notebook, a flask, a little packet of dried fruit, and the pale shell Tavi had carved for me, which I'd begun wearing on a cord around my neck. Pathik's smile suggested that he had noticed I'd packed before learning whether we were actually going. I decided it would be best not to discuss that particular detail.
We descended toward the sheltered landing while the morning was still cool, leaving the higher roofs shining in sunlight above us. The air changed as we lost height, growing damper and carrying more of the sea's familiar smell, and I caught myself listening to the shifts in the wind as though Pathik had assigned me another exercise. At the summit, the sounds had given my wandering thoughts something to return to, but on the path it was the repeated scrape of our boots and the occasional cry of a bird that kept me aware of where I was stepping. I liked discovering that the lesson could follow me outside its proper location. I liked even more that the path was downhill.
Bera was waiting beside his boat with his nephew Daro, a collection of baskets, and a face that had been weathered into a permanent disagreement with the sun. He greeted Pathik warmly, then asked whether I'd finally learned to make breakfast without burning it. I explained that I hadn't burned breakfast in the first place and that a slightly dark crust wasn't necessarily evidence of a disaster. Daro laughed while securing the last of the cargo, and Bera nodded as though he'd heard an excellent argument from someone he had no intention of believing. There was room for us aboard because the outward trip involved delivering supplies rather than bringing passengers, although Bera warned that he'd need to remain at Keshan until the following afternoon.
A night away from the temple was more than we'd originally planned, but Pathik knew a quiet guesthouse near the eastern market and saw no particular difficulty in it. He checked that we'd brought enough money for lodging, food, and the supplies we needed, then gave me a look when I mentioned the honey-sesame cakes. I promised not to spend every coin I possessed on sweets, which seemed a reasonable commitment because I was carrying very few coins to begin with. Bera listened to the exchange and shook his head, muttering that a boy who could eat half a bakery would have no trouble surviving a long sea voyage. I privately considered that a compliment.
Keshan's harbor appeared beyond a low spit of land, with fishing boats tucked between the piers and the market roofs climbing the hillside above them. The morning crowds had already filled the streets, and the smell of cooking oil, damp rope, fresh fish, and warm bread reached us before Bera finished securing his boat. I watched a woman shout at two men who were blocking her stall with a cart, then saw one of the men apologize so enthusiastically that he almost dropped the baskets he was carrying. This was the third time I'd visited the island, and the place already felt familiar in the way small towns sometimes do after you've learned where the good food is sold. I stepped onto the pier with a growing sense of anticipation.
Ren was sweeping the entrance when we reached it. He leaned upon his broom, looked me up and down, and asked whether I'd returned to collect the world's least convincing turtleduck. I told him that artistic excellence took many forms, and he made a thoughtful noise before informing me that mine apparently resembled a duck that had eaten a turtle. We were still debating the distinction when Mara called from inside for him to finish sweeping before the dust found its way onto her freshly glazed bowls. Ren straightened at once, which I found deeply satisfying after he'd spent so much time making fun of my sculpture.
Mara emerged from behind a tall shelf with a half-finished bowl in one hand and a strip of cloth tucked into the waistband of her work trousers. Her dark hair had escaped its tie in several places, and there was a streak of pale clay across one cheek that she hadn't noticed. She greeted Pathik with genuine warmth, then inspected me as though checking for damage sustained since our last meeting. I told her I'd been practicing every day, including the exercises she had forbidden me to rush, and she raised one eyebrow at the word forbidden. "We'll see whether you remember what that means," she said, placing the bowl safely out of my reach.
We began in the rear yard, where the stone paving remained clear and the shelves of unfinished pottery had been shifted farther from our practice space. I removed my outer layer, tied my hair back, and took the stance she had taught me while Mara stood near the water barrel. The first sequence went smoothly enough that I felt a little proud, though I made myself wait for her judgment before speaking. She walked once around me, adjusted the angle of my trailing foot with the edge of her shoe, and asked me to repeat the movement without watching her hands. On the second attempt, I felt the difference in the way my weight traveled through my legs.
"You're anticipating the turn instead of letting it surprise you," she observed when I finished. "That's better, but you're still putting too much attention into the last movement and forgetting how you reached it." I explained the mental exercises Pathik had been helping me develop, describing the way I reconstructed her courtyard in my head and rehearsed a form before trying it physically. I left out the impossible details of my spiritual condition, the peculiar circumstances of my arrival in the world, and everything else that would have made a perfectly ordinary conversation impossible. Mara listened with her arms folded, then asked whether I was practicing what she'd taught me or what I wished she'd taught me.
That was an annoyingly good question. I admitted that I'd sometimes imagined myself doing things I couldn't actually perform, although I'd begun correcting the habit when I noticed it. Mara snorted and said that imagining yourself a master probably felt very satisfying right up until your real feet failed to agree with you. When I told her about nearly tripping over the stone seam that morning, she laughed hard enough to make me regret my honesty. Still, when she asked for another repetition, I completed the sequence with fewer corrections than before.
We didn't produce fire until she'd watched me practice breathing for a while. She insisted that I stop if my chest tightened or my shoulders became strained, and I obeyed because the memory of almost knocking over her pottery remained unpleasantly clear. On my first attempt, I made a small orange flame that trembled and vanished before the third breath had finished. On the second, the warmth gathered more naturally, but I became distracted by Ren dropping something inside the workshop and let the fire disappear rather than forcing it. Mara seemed more pleased that I'd stopped deliberately than she was disappointed by the failed attempt.
The third attempt gave me three steady breaths and the beginning of a fourth before the flame shrank to a spark. It was only marginally better than my previous best, but Mara said that the way I'd ended the technique showed improvement even if the duration hadn't changed much. My arms felt tired afterward, and the warmth beneath my skin faded quickly once I relaxed. I didn't try again, because I'd learned that repeating an exercise while exhausted wasn't especially useful unless I happened to enjoy making mistakes. Mara approved of that decision and told me to fetch some water before I fainted from the tremendous strain of producing a flame smaller than her cooking lamp.
I went inside while she returned to her pottery wheel. The workshop was warm, full of the soft scraping of tools and the faint mineral smell of damp clay, and the shelves near the windows were crowded with bowls waiting to be glazed. Ren had a shallow tray of little ceramic buttons spread across his bench, each stamped with a different design for a clothing merchant, and he was counting them twice because he'd lost track halfway through. I offered to count the remainder, but he claimed I'd only distract him, which was probably true. After drinking, I wandered toward a small cabinet near the back wall where unfamiliar objects had accumulated over the years.
There were broken handles, coils of cord, an old wooden shuttle, and several tools whose purposes I couldn't identify. Beneath a folded cloth sat a little wooden box with slender metal tongues arranged across its surface, each tongue a different length. I recognized it as a thumb piano, or something close enough to one, and the sight made me stop. It looked simple compared with the magnificent wind instruments at the temple, but I liked the careful arrangement of its metal pieces. The wood had been polished smooth by use, and a shallow carved flower decorated one corner.
I picked it up only after asking Ren whether it belonged to anyone. He glanced over his shoulder and said Mara had bought it from a passing trader years ago, then added that it hadn't made a respectable sound since he tried playing it. That sounded like a challenge, although he'd probably meant it as a warning. I carried the little instrument toward the doorway where the light was better and held it between my palms. A single metal tongue rang when I pressed and released it with my thumb, producing a clear note that lingered pleasantly in the air.
I tried the next one, then the next, testing every note in order before changing direction. Some were higher, some lower, and a few seemed to fit together almost automatically when I played them one after another. I wasn't a trained musician and had no particular reason to assume I could become one in the space of an afternoon, but finding patterns in little sounds was something my mind had been doing for days in the Hall of Whispering Winds. I played the longest tongue again, listening to how its note settled beneath the brighter one beside it. Then I tried a small sequence, stopped, and tried it in reverse.
The first combinations were clumsy enough that Mara called from her wheel to ask whether an insect had crawled into the instrument. I told her I was still figuring out what it sounded like, and she said that so far it sounded like a drawer full of cutlery falling down the stairs. Ren laughed loudly, which was a little unfair given his own admitted history with the thing. I moved to the bench just outside the doorway, where I could hear the notes without competing with the pottery wheel. The courtyard was half in sunlight, and the mild breeze carried the smell of baking from a nearby street.
I went through every tongue again, slower this time. Each note seemed to leave a little impression behind it, and after a while I began picturing them as points of light suspended in a dark room, brightening whenever I touched their corresponding pieces of metal. It wasn't an image I chose deliberately; it simply appeared, the way my imaginary cities and creatures always did. But unlike those wandering inventions, this one had something definite beneath it, because the sounds were real and stayed the same each time I played them. When one little chain of lights felt wrong, I could return to the instrument and hear exactly why.
I spent a while experimenting with groups of two or three notes, sometimes discovering a pleasing movement and sometimes producing something that made me wrinkle my nose. My imagination wanted to fill the spaces between them, giving each sound a direction and suggesting where another might follow. I began to hear a melody before I could play it, a gentle rise and fall that seemed to ask a question and then wait for an answer. It wasn't grand or complicated, and I couldn't have explained why it felt right. I simply followed the next note when it came to me and tried to remember what my thumbs had done.
"Have you improved that much, or has the instrument finally given up?" Mara asked from behind me. I hadn't heard her approach, and my thumb slipped, producing a sharp, unpleasant note that spoiled the little sequence I'd been assembling. She leaned against the doorway with a cup in her hand, watching my expression with obvious amusement. I told her she could have waited until I finished before startling me, and she replied that if I were going to give concerts outside her shop, I ought to be able to survive an audience of one. "Go on, then," she added, settling against the doorframe. "Play something properly, so I can judge just how terrible it is."
I looked down at the polished wood in my hands. A minute earlier, I could barely have said what I was playing, but the pattern had begun to remain in my memory when I stopped. I tried the opening again, making sure each note had space to ring before touching the next. My fingers stumbled once, and I started over without embarrassment, because there wasn't much dignity to protect when I was sitting on a bench being challenged by a potter. Then the opening sequence held together, and the melody unfolded beneath my thumbs with a steadiness that surprised me.
Mara stopped making comments. I noticed it without looking up, because the absence of her teasing was nearly as distinct as one of the notes. The melody sounded gentle and a little wistful, carrying something of the hall's quiet music but shaped by the little wooden instrument in my hands. I played the first phrase twice, allowing it to settle into a pattern, and an image appeared of a small child reaching both arms toward someone standing just out of sight. I didn't know why that particular image had arrived, but it was accompanied by a handful of words that seemed to fit the notes.
I sang them softly at first, more to test their place in the melody than to entertain Mara. The words were simple enough that I didn't need to search for them, and each new line seemed to grow from the one before it. In my mind, the child ran through a field beneath a pale moon, carrying something precious in a pocket and turning occasionally to see whether anyone was following. I had no idea who the child was or who was waiting, and the song didn't seem to need an answer. For once, the picture in my head and the thing my hands were doing belonged to the same moment.
Oh little one, where'd you take my heart?
Oh little one, where'd you take my heart?
Did you hide it in the moon?
Did you sink it in the sea?
Is it stuck inside your pocket?
Keep it close as close can be
Someday you'll return to me
The last note lingered longer than I expected, and I let it fade instead of rushing to fill the silence. The courtyard was still bright, but I became aware of footsteps outside the workshop and a soft rustle near the entrance. When I finally looked up, Mara was standing very still, with her cup forgotten between her hands. Ren had stopped working behind her, and two people I didn't recognize were watching from the lane. I stared back at them, suddenly conscious that I'd just sung a rather personal little song to an audience I hadn't known existed.
The silence lasted just long enough to become uncomfortable. Then one of the strangers, a broad woman with flour on her apron, asked where I'd learned the song. Another woman standing behind her said she'd heard the beginning from the street and had followed it because her youngest child liked lullabies. Ren looked between them and me, apparently enjoying the fact that Mara had been expecting something dreadful and had received the opposite. I considered inventing a grand explanation involving years of secret musical study, but that seemed unlikely to survive even the slightest examination. "I was just trying the notes," I admitted, still holding the instrument between my hands. "Then the rest sort of happened."
The woman with the apron said it was lovely and asked whether I could play it again. I glanced toward Mara, expecting her to reclaim the instrument before her workshop became an impromptu gathering place, but she merely looked down at her cup and nodded. By then another two people had stopped outside, one carrying a basket of vegetables and the other leading a small boy by the hand. I felt a little warmth rise in my face, which was irritating because I'd managed to sing perfectly comfortably when I hadn't realized anyone was listening. Still, they'd asked politely, and the music was sitting in my fingers as though it belonged there.
"I can try," I told them, shifting to make room on the bench. The small boy came closer, fascinated by the metal tongues, and his mother gently pulled him back so I could play without someone reaching for my hands. I tested the first three notes, recognized the familiar little sequence, and began again with more confidence than before. This time I could hear how the end of each line made room for the next, and I didn't need to imagine the whole tune at once. I followed the remembered pattern and let the words come when they fitted naturally.
The second performance wasn't identical to the first, because I softened one phrase and lingered over another. The woman with flour on her apron began humming along, not because she knew the melody but because she'd heard it once and could anticipate where it would return. I watched the little boy sway beside his mother while the notes found their places beneath my thumbs. Having an audience ought to have made me self-conscious, but the music gave me something steady to follow, and for once my thoughts didn't pull me away from what I was doing. I sang the opening again, letting the familiar little question settle over the quiet lane.
Oh little one, where'd you take my heart?
Oh little one, where'd you take my heart?
Did you hide it in the moon?
Did you sink it in the sea?
Is it stuck inside your pocket?
Keep it close as close can be
Someday you'll return to me
The last note didn't quite feel like an ending this time. Another little pattern suggested itself, shaped from the same notes but turning gently in a different direction, and I let my imagination follow it as carefully as my fingers. A star appeared in my thoughts, bright above a child's bedroom window, and words gathered around the image before I had time to decide whether they were any good. I let them come, because the people listening weren't asking me to be perfect; they were listening for whatever came next.
Oh little star, are you sleeping well?
Oh little star, are you sleeping well?
Does the moon still light your room?
Does the rain still sing you home?
Did you hide your dreams in pockets?
Keep them safe till morning comes
Even far, you're not alone
I had never played a song for other people before, and I certainly hadn't expected to make one up while they watched. Yet each note gave the next one somewhere to stand, and the little lights I'd imagined earlier seemed to join into a path that I could follow without seeing its end. I heard someone shift closer to the workshop door, but I didn't look up to find out who it was. Instead I pictured a bird beyond the mountains, small enough to be frightened by the open sky and stubborn enough to fly anyway.
Oh little bird, have you found your way?
Oh little bird, have you found your way?
Do you fly beyond the hills?
Do the stars look just as bright?
Do you keep a light inside you?
Let it shine through wind and rain
You can always find your home
The imagined bird carried me farther than I'd expected, past the island and over the darkening sea, until I thought about someone waiting beside a window for a child who might never come back. I didn't know who the waiting person was, but the image made the next few words ache in a way the earlier ones hadn't. My hands slowed slightly as I found the softer notes, and the little boy stopped swaying to listen. I kept playing, following the new shape of the melody rather than rushing to finish it.
Oh little love, can you hear my song?
Oh little love, can you hear my song?
Though the roads are far and wide
Though the years have come and gone
There's a lantern in the window
When the night is cold and long
I'll be waiting by the door
I could have ended there, but the first question was still waiting for its answer. I returned to the opening notes, a little quieter now, and let the words repeat as though someone were singing them at a bedside instead of in a crowded workshop yard. The melody no longer felt like a collection of tines I'd been testing half an hour ago; it had a beginning I recognized and an ending I could finally hear coming. When I reached the last line, I let it fade into the afternoon without trying to invent anything more.
Oh little one, where'd you take my heart?
Oh little one, where'd you take my heart?
Did you hide it in the moon?
Did you sink it in the sea?
Is it stuck inside your pocket?
Keep it close as close can be
Someday you'll return to me
When the last note faded, the woman beside the child began clapping. Others joined her, with Ren adding several enthusiastic strikes from the workshop doorway and Bera's familiar laugh drifting from somewhere beyond the little crowd. There weren't dozens of people or any great ceremony, just a handful of neighbors who'd stopped what they were doing to listen, but the applause was warm enough to leave me uncertain where to put my hands. I bowed from the bench, which made the child giggle, and thanked them before carefully setting the kalimba in my lap. My ears felt hot, and I was glad that no one had a mirror nearby.
Once the listeners dispersed, Ren returned to his bench but continued looking at me with exaggerated suspicion. He said he wanted to know who'd been giving me secret lessons, because the same boy who'd produced a turtleduck with three suspiciously different feet couldn't possibly have composed a tune worth repeating. I told him that uneven sculpture and decent music were perfectly compatible talents, and he said he'd believe that after seeing the turtleduck survive the kiln. We were arguing over whether its head was supposed to be larger than its body when Mara quietly asked him to check the glaze mixture in the back room. He went without complaint, although the look he gave me suggested he intended to resume the argument later.
Mara sat on the opposite end of the bench and held out her hand for the instrument. I passed it to her carefully, noting the way her fingers rested against the polished edges as though she were handling something fragile. She plucked one of the lower notes, listened to it fade, and asked when I'd first learned to play. When I told her I'd begun about half an hour earlier, she looked at me with the same skepticism she'd shown when I first produced fire without a teacher. "Don't give me nonsense," she said, though the sharpness was gone from her voice. "I'm asking how long you've actually been playing."
"That long," I insisted, pointing toward the cabinet where I'd found it. "I knew what a thumb piano looked like, but I never learned to play one. I tried every note, figured out which ones sounded good together, and kept following the tune that was forming in my head." Mara studied my face a moment longer before giving the instrument back. Her expression was thoughtful now, and I had the uncomfortable feeling that she was examining an unfinished problem rather than admiring a performance. I understood that look, because it was the one I wore whenever something didn't fit the explanation I'd already given it.
I demonstrated the first few steps more slowly. I plucked the longest tongue, then one of the shorter ones, comparing their sounds before moving to the little sequence that had become the song's opening. Mara watched my hands closely, occasionally asking me to repeat a pair of notes so she could hear the difference. I explained the imagined lights, the way each sound had seemed to suggest another, and the strange feeling of the melody arranging itself around something real rather than wandering away into an unrelated story. Saying it aloud made the process sound less magical and rather more sensible, though I still couldn't explain why those particular words had appeared.
"So your head needed something to start with," Mara said at last, turning the instrument over to examine its little carved flower. I nodded, then admitted that I'd never thought of it that way before. She looked toward her wheel through the open doorway, where a fresh lump of clay stood waiting for her hands. For several moments she said nothing, and I could almost see her comparing two ideas that hadn't previously belonged together. Then she rose and motioned for me to follow her inside.
She placed the lump of clay in the center of the wheel, wet her hands, and began turning it. At first the clay wobbled, shifting toward the rim whenever her palms loosened, and she allowed me to watch the uneven motion without correcting it immediately. "This is what happens when the clay doesn't have a center," she said, bringing her hands in until the mass gradually steadied. "You can push it into all sorts of shapes, but you'll spend most of your strength fighting the wobble instead of making what you want." I leaned closer, watching the surface settle into a smooth turning shape beneath her fingers.
"You do something similar when you try to bend," she continued. "You see the fire you want before you've remembered how to make the little flame you're capable of, and by the time your mind comes back to your feet, they've already wandered off without you." I made a faint noise of protest, mostly because she'd described the problem with unnecessary accuracy. Mara ignored it and lifted her hands from the spinning clay, which remained centered long enough for her to begin shaping a shallow bowl. "Maybe your imagination isn't the thing getting in your way," she said. "Maybe it just doesn't have anything solid enough to work from yet."
I considered the idea while the wheel turned. Pathik had been teaching me to remain aware of the world even while I imagined things, and that had already made a difference to the way I practiced. Mara seemed to be suggesting another piece of the same problem, that I needed a reliable starting point before all the possibilities in my head became useful. The instrument had given me one note, then another, and a melody had grown around their real sounds. My firebending, by comparison, still consisted of a few movements I could barely perform consistently and a little flame that vanished as soon as I became too excited.
"So I have to be good at bending before my imagination can help me get good at bending," I said, and the complaint sounded rather reasonable when I heard it aloud. Mara snorted, smoothing the rim of her bowl without looking at me. "You have to know where you're standing before you can go anywhere," she corrected. "Getting the first foothold is the hard part. The climb doesn't stop after that, but at least you're climbing instead of sliding down the same patch of dirt." She ran a wet thumb along the clay's edge, making the line cleaner without changing the bowl's basic shape.
I watched the wheel for a while before asking whether that meant my imagination might eventually help me discover new techniques. Mara said perhaps, although she'd rather I learned to produce a sensible flame before planning how to invent one that could dance through the air and make breakfast for me. I admitted that the breakfast idea was appealing, and she gave me a look that suggested she'd had enough of my ambitions for one afternoon. Beneath the teasing, however, I could see that she was genuinely considering the possibility. She had spent her life working with materials that resisted her hands until she learned how they behaved, and she seemed to recognize something familiar in me.
"And don't mistake that for a promise everything becomes easy," she added, lifting the bowl from the wheel with a practiced movement. "If the foundation is crooked, all the clever decoration in the world won't keep the walls straight. Learn the ordinary parts properly, then see what your wonderful imagination does with them." I repeated the thought privately, trying to remember the exact distinction between beginning and finishing. It fitted rather neatly beside Pathik's warning that imagined practice could only be as accurate as the experience beneath it.
While I was putting the notebook away, I noticed a framed painting resting against the wall behind a folded curtain. The bottom edge had been uncovered by Ren moving supplies, revealing several pairs of little shoes arranged beneath bright ceremonial robes. I might not have looked twice if the scene hadn't reminded me of the imagined child from the song. Mara followed my glance, and her expression changed in a small, unmistakable way. She reached toward the frame, hesitated, and then drew the curtain aside rather than hiding it again.
Seven girls stood in the painting, their faces so alike that at first I thought the artist had painted the same child repeatedly. Each wore a slightly different ribbon or ornament, but their dark hair, lively eyes, and smiling mouths were almost identical, and I found myself counting them twice to be certain. They stood beneath flowering trees in a carefully tended courtyard, with a narrow red bridge behind them and a great many details that suggested an expensive household. One girl stood a half-step apart, grinning as if she'd just been told to remain perfectly still and considered the instruction personally insulting. I recognized her before I was ready to admit it.
The girl was Ty Lee, or at least someone who looked so much like her that I had trouble imagining another explanation. I didn't say her name. The recognition belonged to a part of my life I had no intention of explaining, and the painting didn't necessarily prove anything beyond the resemblance. Yet once I'd noticed the smiling girl, it was impossible not to see the others as the sisters I'd remembered hearing about in my former life. I turned toward Mara, who was looking at the portrait with a tenderness so unguarded that I felt suddenly guilty for having stared. The familiar sharpness had left her face, and she seemed older than she'd been a moment before.
"Are they yours?" I asked, keeping my voice quiet because the question felt like something that should be spoken gently. Mara took a long breath and nodded, resting one hand against the frame. She told me there were seven daughters altogether, so alike in appearance that strangers had always assumed they were playing some elaborate trick. Their father liked dressing them to match, she added, although each girl had found ways to make trouble or stand apart when she wanted to. The smallest smile appeared on her face as she pointed to the one who'd stepped away from the group, then faded almost immediately.
I knew better than to pretend I understood everything behind that look. Pathik had taught me that sometimes the kindest thing I could do was let someone choose how much to say, and Mara had never struck me as someone who appreciated being pressed. I asked whether the girls were still living in the Fire Nation, which she answered with a quiet yes, and then whether she'd seen them recently. Her hand withdrew from the frame. "No," she said, with a firmness that made the single word feel heavier than an explanation.
I waited, wondering whether I'd overstepped. The workshop's ordinary noises continued around us: Ren moving jars in the back, the faint crackle of heat from the kiln, and a cart rattling along the lane. Mara looked past me toward the courtyard, then settled on the edge of a workbench with her hands clasped loosely in front of her. "My husband threw me out," she said at last. "His house, his servants, his name over the gate, and somehow he decided that made our daughters his to keep and mine to miss."
I felt something cold and unpleasant gather beneath my ribs, although it had nothing to do with bending. I'd heard stories of parents and children being separated during the war, but this was different because there wasn't an army or a burning village between them, only a household that had decided one person no longer belonged. I wanted to ask why her husband had done it, whether she'd tried to return, and why seven girls had been left without their mother. The questions came so quickly that I almost spoke over her. Then I saw the way she was holding her hands and decided to ask the only thing that mattered at the moment.
"Do you miss them?" I asked, even though the answer seemed obvious. Mara let out a little breath that might have been a laugh if it hadn't sounded so tired. "Every day," she said, and looked at the portrait instead of me. For a while, she told me about the girls in small pieces, how one could climb almost anything, another liked sitting with books, and several had made a game of switching places whenever adults weren't paying attention. She didn't offer a tidy explanation for everything that had happened, and I didn't expect one.
When she finally fell quiet, I took the little packet of dried fruit from my bag and held it out. Mara looked at it as though she hadn't understood the gesture, then shook her head and said she wasn't hungry. I placed it on the workbench anyway and sat beside the portrait without trying to improve the situation with some clever observation about family. There wasn't anything I could say that would return seven girls to a mother who wanted them home. After a little while, Mara reached into the packet, took one piece, and asked whether I'd eaten enough lunch.
I laughed softly and admitted that I hadn't eaten anything since the boat. She gave me a familiar irritated look, told me I would be useless for another lesson if I fainted, and sent Ren to fetch two bowls from the kitchen. The conversation shifted toward ordinary things, but the portrait remained uncovered. Before she returned to her work, Mara glanced at the kalimba and told me she'd never expected that silly little instrument to produce something that reminded her so much of home. I didn't know what to do with the compliment, so I promised to remember the tune well enough to play it again if she wanted.
It was late afternoon when the harbor bell began ringing in an unfamiliar pattern. The ordinary market noise didn't stop immediately, but a change passed through the street that I felt before I understood it. A cart driver abandoned his argument with a customer and moved toward the harbor, while a pair of shopkeepers exchanged anxious glances across the lane. Mara set down the spoon she'd been using and listened to the second set of bells. Her face tightened, and Ren moved toward the doorway without waiting to be asked.
A boy ran past the workshop shouting that a Fire Nation ship was entering the harbor. His voice vanished into the street, followed by the sound of people calling to one another and the scrape of doors being pulled partly closed. For a moment, I remained seated with my bowl in my hands, remembering the patrol ship we'd seen from the island weeks earlier. This was a trading settlement on Earth Kingdom waters, not a Fire Nation port, and a warship's arrival was not a reason for anyone here to relax. I set down my bowl and stood beside Mara, who had gone very still.
"Stay inside for now," she told Ren, though she was looking toward me as well. "And don't do anything foolish just because someone arrives wearing armor." I nodded, understanding that she meant more than ordinary caution. Her accent and her skill at the kiln were things she kept quiet in this town, and the last thing she wanted was attention from a Fire Nation officer who might recognize what she could do. I moved closer to the doorway but remained behind the shelves, where I could see a narrow strip of the lane. The people outside weren't running, but almost everyone was watching the harbor.
From the edge of the doorway, I could see only a little of the harbor road, so I waited until a fishmonger hurried past and called out what he'd learned. The ship had arrived under Fire Nation colors and requested water, food, and repairs to part of its galley equipment, but the captain had apparently promised that no soldiers would enter the town without permission. The harbor master was negotiating with the officers rather than preparing to fight, which was encouraging. Keshan was too small to survive a battle between a warship and a handful of fishermen, and everyone knew it. The merchants were frightened because even a peaceful visit could become dangerous if someone lost patience.
Mara asked me to fetch Pathik if I saw him on the street. I found him a few minutes later near the fountain, carrying a bundle of herbs beneath one arm while talking to the owner of a linen stall. He'd already heard about the ship and was watching the movement of people with a calmness that made the surrounding anxiety seem more obvious. When I told him Mara wanted him nearby, he followed without hesitation, though he asked whether she'd said anything about what she feared. I explained that she'd been born in the Fire Nation and wasn't eager to attract soldiers' attention, which was true without being the whole of it. Pathik gave a thoughtful nod and reminded me that a warship's arrival did not necessarily mean anyone intended to harm us.
We returned to the workshop just as Ren came back from speaking with the cooper. The harbor master had agreed to sell supplies, the ship's crew would be limited to a small shore party, and an older man accompanying the prince had asked whether a particular potter still worked in the eastern market. Ren gave Mara a puzzled look when he repeated the description of the woman the stranger had requested. Mara set down the clay tool in her hand so suddenly that it struck the bench with a sharp sound. "What older man?" she asked, and the question came out rougher than anything she'd said all afternoon.
Ren described a broad, cheerful gentleman with a thick beard who'd been asking about tea as though he were visiting a relative rather than arranging supplies for a warship. The man's clothes suggested a Fire Nation officer, though he carried himself like someone who would rather spend the afternoon in a garden than inspecting a harbor. Mara stared toward the door with an expression I couldn't read. Then she reached for the cloth at her waist, wiped her hands, and told Ren to put away the trays he'd left near the entrance. She didn't explain why, and I wasn't sure she needed to.
There were only a handful of men in the world who fitted that description while traveling beside a Fire Nation prince. I felt a peculiar lurch of recognition, followed by the uncomfortable realization that I'd known this meeting might happen only in the broadest possible sense. My memories of the story were useful for recognizing people and understanding their motives, but they didn't contain a complete account of what happened to every stranger in every harbor before the Avatar woke. I'd never heard of Keshan, Mara, or the seven girls' portrait in the version of events I remembered. Whatever came next was going to belong to this world rather than to a scene I'd watched from safety.
Footsteps sounded outside, accompanied by a calm male voice asking whether the workshop had any tea worth drinking. Another voice answered sharply that they'd come to find someone, not sample every market stall on the island. I knew both voices before I saw their owners, and the certainty made me turn toward the entrance without thinking. A broad older man stepped into view first, his beard and hair streaked with gray, his eyes warm despite the armor visible beneath his outer robes. Behind him stood a thin young man in dark red traveling clothes, his head mostly shaved except for a tied topknot and an unmistakable burn scar surrounding his left eye.
Prince Zuko looked younger in person than he did in my memories. His shoulders were tense, and even while standing still he seemed prepared to move if someone challenged him. The scar wasn't a dramatic mark arranged neatly on a character's face; it was uneven skin with a history that suddenly felt painfully real. I knew why he had it, or at least I knew the story he'd eventually tell about it, and the knowledge made me careful not to stare. Iroh, meanwhile, was looking past me toward Mara with an expression that began as hopeful recognition and softened into something more private.
For a moment, nobody spoke. Mara stood beside the pottery wheel with her hands hanging at her sides, as though she'd forgotten what she was holding moments earlier. Iroh looked at her carefully, taking in the lines around her eyes and the clay stains on her clothes. Then he gave a small, almost uncertain smile and said, "Hello, little sister. I hope I haven't come at a bad time." Mara crossed the workshop before he'd finished the sentence and wrapped her arms around him so abruptly that he had to steady his footing.
The embrace lasted longer than I expected. Iroh held her with both arms, his eyes closing briefly, while Mara pressed her forehead against his shoulder and said something too quiet for me to hear. The workshop remained still around them, though I could hear Ren moving awkwardly near the shelves as he tried to decide whether he should leave. Zuko looked from his uncle to Mara and then back again, the lines between his brows deepening. His expression suggested he'd arrived expecting an ordinary visit and discovered that he'd been omitted from a rather significant part of the plan.
When Mara drew back, she examined Iroh's face with the brisk attention of someone checking whether a relative had been eating properly. She accused him of looking tired and asked whether he'd been getting enough sleep aboard that old ship. Iroh responded that he'd been drinking excellent tea and avoiding unnecessary exertion whenever possible, which earned him a brief smile and an accusation that he was just as impossible as ever. I watched the exchange with growing fascination, because nothing about Mara's usual manner suggested she'd be shy about scolding a legendary general. Apparently, Iroh hadn't been spared any special treatment because of his reputation.
Zuko cleared his throat, and the sound made both of them turn. "Uncle," he said, with the clipped patience of someone who'd already endured a long argument about a detour. "You told me you wanted to visit an old acquaintance." Iroh looked momentarily apologetic, though not especially ashamed. Mara studied Zuko, her gaze pausing very briefly at his scar before returning to his eyes, and asked whether he remembered her. The prince's expression changed as recognition settled into place.
"Lady Mara?" he asked, looking faintly startled. "Ty Lee's mother?" Mara's mouth tightened at the name, but she nodded and stepped closer. She said he hadn't been much taller than my shoulder the last time she'd seen him and that his hair had been considerably less dramatic, an observation that made him straighten in irritation. Iroh made an unsuccessful attempt to hide his amusement behind a cough. Zuko asked why his uncle had called her his sister, and the room seemed to grow quieter again.
Mara glanced toward Ren, who had the good sense to step into the back room before she said anything else. Pathik remained near the entrance, deliberately giving the family space while making no move to leave me alone among strangers. Mara folded her arms and looked at Iroh, clearly offering him the opportunity to answer. He accepted it without hesitation. "Because she is my sister, Prince Zuko," he said gently. "We share a father, though our lives have taken very different roads."
Zuko stared at him. I watched the realization move across his face, from confusion to disbelief and then toward an anger that seemed to arrive whenever his family revealed another secret he'd been too young or too unimportant to hear. "Grandfather?" he asked, keeping his voice low but tight. Iroh nodded once and said that their father had never publicly recognized Mara as his daughter, although Iroh himself had never considered that an excuse to deny their relationship. Mara added that she'd been raised away from the palace by a good man who'd taught her most of what she knew about pottery and firebending.
I thought briefly about what that meant. Azulon had been Iroh and Ozai's father, and if Mara shared that bloodline, then the woman who had patiently corrected my stance was related to some of the most dangerous people in the world. She'd married into the Ty family, and the girl I'd recognized in the portrait wasn't merely Zuko's childhood acquaintance but his cousin. I kept my expression as ordinary as I could manage, because my thoughts were already running several miles ahead of the conversation. Mara, meanwhile, looked far more interested in whether Iroh had eaten than in the grand implications of her ancestry.
"You could have told me," Zuko said to his uncle, his jaw working as though he were trying not to sound hurt. Iroh's smile faded, and he answered that Mara's history was hers to share, not a court story he had any right to recite. Zuko looked toward the portrait behind the curtain, which Mara had left uncovered, and appeared to recognize the seven girls immediately. He asked whether they were still at their father's estate, then stopped as if remembering something he didn't want to say in front of strangers. Mara gave him a small nod and said she hoped they were well.
Iroh noticed the portrait too. For a moment, something troubled passed across his face, and he reached toward Mara's hand without making a show of it. She let him hold it briefly before pulling away to fetch cups, apparently deciding that tea was easier to manage than whatever questions he might have. Zuko remained near the entrance, clearly uncertain whether to join the conversation or demand that they return to the ship. I recognized the discomfort of being brought somewhere and discovering that everyone else understood the rules except you. For all his princely bearing, he was still a teenager caught in an awkward family reunion.
Mara introduced Pathik properly, explaining that he lived at the Eastern Air Temple and had been bringing me to her workshop for lessons. Iroh's interest sharpened at the mention of the temple, though he didn't ask the sort of questions a soldier might ask about an abandoned site. Pathik greeted him with the untroubled courtesy he offered nearly everyone, mentioning that he'd heard many stories about Iroh's travels but was glad to meet him as a guest rather than as a reputation. Iroh laughed and said reputations often made very poor company at tea. Then Mara gestured toward me, and I realized I'd been standing so quietly that everyone might have forgotten I was there.
"This is Jinx," she said, giving me a look that warned against immediate foolishness. "He keeps appearing at my door and asking how to breathe, so I've decided he might eventually be worth the trouble." I bowed slightly to Iroh and Zuko, careful not to make it theatrical, and introduced myself without any titles or invented background. Iroh's eyes moved from my face to the thin notebook peeking out of my bag, and he asked whether I'd been enjoying the lessons. I said I was enjoying them considerably more than my legs were, which made Mara snort and brought an easy laugh from the older man.
Zuko wasn't laughing. He looked me over with suspicion, apparently wondering why a boy from an Earth Kingdom island was learning firebending from his relative. I could almost see the questions forming: whether I was a spy, whether Mara had been careless, or whether this was another diversion his uncle had arranged without consulting him. I didn't attempt to anticipate all of them aloud, because that would have been an excellent way to make him suspicious of things he'd never considered. Instead, I let him ask his own question.
"Are you a firebender?" he demanded, looking at my dark clothes and the fur-trimmed boots that still attracted occasional attention in warm weather. I nodded and explained that Mara had been helping me learn the basics, although I was barely capable of sustaining a small flame. He looked toward her, and she confirmed it with a shrug, adding that I was at least beginning to understand why breath mattered. Zuko's expression suggested that he considered that a very low standard for achievement. I resisted the urge to remind him that everyone had once been a beginner.
Iroh asked whether Mara had been teaching me openly, and she assured him that her lessons were private and that the local people knew her primarily as a potter. His gaze flickered toward the front windows, beyond which the market had begun recovering from the warship's arrival. He told her that the ship would be gone as soon as its supplies were gathered and that he intended no trouble for the town. Mara accepted the assurance without pretending that a Fire Nation ship was an ordinary visitor. I appreciated that she could be glad to see her brother and still understand why his arrival might frighten her neighbors.
I let the adults talk while I returned the kalimba to its cabinet, taking care not to leave it where someone might knock it off the workbench. Mara noticed and told Iroh about the song I'd played earlier, describing with some disbelief how I'd picked up the instrument without having practiced beforehand. Iroh's eyes brightened immediately, and he asked what kind of song it had been. I told him it was a lullaby that had come together while I experimented with the notes, though I couldn't promise it would sound as good a third time. He laughed and said that a good song had a way of improving each time someone returned to it.
Zuko made a faint impatient sound at the mention of music. Iroh looked toward him and suggested that perhaps they could enjoy one pleasant afternoon without discussing the Avatar, and the prince's shoulders tightened. "We're not on vacation," he replied, his voice sharper than before. "Every day we spend stopping at little islands is another day we aren't searching." Iroh answered that they needed supplies regardless of how urgently they wished to sail, and that an hour spent visiting family would not erase three years of effort. Zuko's face changed at the reference to those years, and I looked down at the instrument because I didn't want him to catch the pity I couldn't entirely keep from my expression.
I knew what he was searching for and why. He believed finding the Avatar would restore his honor and allow him to return home, but I also knew that the version of home he wanted had already changed beyond recognition. None of that was knowledge I could offer him without exposing myself or sounding like an arrogant stranger lecturing a prince about his own father. I settled for observing how Iroh spoke to him, patient without pretending the anger wasn't real. Zuko answered with short, defensive sentences, but he did listen, even when his face suggested that listening was the last thing he wanted to be caught doing.
The afternoon light began to turn gold by the time the conversation moved back toward the workshop. Mara mentioned that she'd intended to inspect my stance again after lunch, though the ship's arrival had disrupted her plans. Zuko looked toward me with something close to disbelief and asked whether I truly needed someone to watch me stand. I felt a little prick of irritation, but it was outweighed by the thought that he'd probably been learning firebending since he was much younger than I was. "Apparently I need someone to watch me breathe too," I said, which made Iroh laugh and Mara give an appreciative nod.
"If you can't control your breath, you can't control your fire," Zuko answered immediately, and for the first time his voice held something other than impatience. I looked toward him as though he'd offered a serious lesson, because he had. I asked whether he meant that the breath should remain steady throughout the movement or change when the stance shifted, and he began to answer before he seemed to realize he'd been drawn into explaining. His brow furrowed, but the question was genuine enough that he continued. I listened carefully, finding that his description of when the exhale should begin differed slightly from the timing I'd been using.
Mara raised an eyebrow at him. "Sounds as though you're volunteering to demonstrate, Prince Zuko," she said, and the prince looked ready to deny it. Iroh smiled into his tea, which made the whole thing worse for his nephew. I didn't say anything, because an obvious request would have given Zuko an equally obvious reason to refuse. Instead, I glanced at the small practice yard beyond the doorway and considered how useful it would be to see the movement performed by someone who'd spent years repeating it. Zuko followed my glance, noticed what I wanted, and frowned.
"You're staring," he said. I looked back at him and admitted that I was trying to understand how his shoulders were supposed to move, because Mara and Iroh had both been talking about breath as though it were part of the whole stance. He studied me for a moment, evidently deciding whether the question was an insult disguised as ignorance. "You're doing it wrong if you're thinking about your shoulders separately," he said at last. "Your breath and movement have to connect, or the fire will break apart." I nodded and asked whether he could show me the connection once, since I was clearly failing to picture it accurately.
Zuko stood so abruptly that his chair scraped across the floor. "Fine," he said, as though he'd agreed only because continuing the conversation would be more irritating. Mara followed us into the yard with a look of quiet amusement, and Iroh came after her carrying his tea. Pathik remained near the doorway, giving me a small encouraging nod that I hoped didn't look too much like permission to make a fool of myself. I stood to one side while Zuko planted his feet and settled into a ready stance.
The difference between his movements and mine was immediately obvious. Mara's demonstrations were precise and economical, suited to someone who controlled a kiln for hours without wasting effort, while Zuko moved with the quick, forceful certainty of someone who had trained to fight. His weight shifted through the ground with an ease I couldn't imitate, and his arms followed the motion of his body rather than moving as separate pieces. A compact flame issued from his fist at the end of the sequence, bright enough to throw a warm reflection across the wall, then vanished when he relaxed his hand. He had barely needed to look at what he was doing.
I recognized the form from the lessons I'd remembered in the old series, but seeing it at arm's length was something else. The sound of the breath, the faint scuff of his boot, and the instant the flame appeared were all details I could never have reconstructed perfectly from memory. My imagination was already trying to preserve them, and I made myself pay attention to the parts I could actually observe rather than filling every gap with what I thought should have happened. Zuko turned toward me, still looking faintly irritated, and asked whether I'd seen enough. I told him I'd noticed three things I was doing wrong and wanted to see one of them again.
He gave me a hard stare. "Three?" he repeated, as though he'd expected me to admit complete ignorance. I pointed toward his trailing foot and asked why it had remained anchored for longer than mine usually did. He glanced down, then explained that lifting the heel too early would carry too much weight forward and make the next movement slow. I nodded, thinking of my near fall that morning, and told him that was exactly what had been happening to me. Something in his expression shifted, not into warmth but into the mild surprise of discovering that I had asked because I actually wanted to learn.
"Try it," he ordered, stepping aside. I took my stance and began the sequence without fire, paying attention to where my weight rested as I turned. My first attempt was imperfect, and Zuko immediately told me that I was leaning toward my front foot. I corrected it, performed the movement again, and felt how keeping my heel down changed the transition. The improvement was small, but it was real, and I told him so without trying to make it sound more impressive than it was.
"You're still slow," Zuko said, folding his arms. I nodded and admitted that I probably would be for some time, since I hadn't practiced the form nearly as long as he had. He opened his mouth as though expecting an argument and seemed briefly disarmed when none arrived. Mara watched with an expression I couldn't quite read, while Iroh looked as though he had discovered a particularly enjoyable kind of tea. I was aware that praising Zuko's competence was affecting him, but there was no need to lie: he was vastly better at this than I was, and I wanted to understand how he'd become that good.
We repeated the movement several more times, with Zuko correcting my timing more sharply than Mara usually did. He wasn't cruel about it, but he had little patience for excuses and seemed especially irritated whenever I became distracted by the imagined version of the form. Once, I caught myself picturing the flame extending in a beautiful sweeping arc before I'd even completed the turn, and my front foot drifted sideways. Zuko noticed immediately and told me to stop trying to perform something else in the middle of the exercise. I apologized and made myself look at the actual ground.
By the time we finished, my legs were tired and the sun had dropped behind the workshop roof. Zuko looked toward Iroh as though waiting for acknowledgment that he'd done a sufficient amount of charitable work for the day. Iroh thanked him for taking the time to explain the movement, and Zuko responded that it was only a basic form. Mara said that was precisely why beginners needed someone willing to demonstrate it properly, and I agreed before remembering that agreeing too eagerly might embarrass him. Zuko gave me a sideways look that suggested he'd caught the intention behind at least part of my politeness.
"You ask a lot of questions," he remarked while I reached for my water flask. I told him it was cheaper than learning everything by making mistakes, and he said mistakes were part of training whether I asked questions or not. That was fair, and I admitted it, though I pointed out that I didn't need to repeat the ones someone else could warn me about. He considered me for a moment before asking whether I was always this talkative. "Usually more," I answered, which earned a reluctant breath that might have been the beginning of a laugh if he'd allowed it to continue.
Iroh watched the exchange without interrupting. I could feel his attention on us, not in an uncomfortable way but in the manner of someone following the movements of a game whose rules he understood better than either player. His smile remained friendly, yet his eyes missed very little, and I suspected he'd recognized that I was choosing my questions carefully. I didn't mind that nearly as much as I might have minded Zuko recognizing it. If Iroh understood that I wanted Zuko to feel useful rather than threatened, perhaps he would see the arrangement as something other than a child attempting to attach himself to a royal prince.
A bell sounded from the harbor as the ship's shore party began preparing to return. Zuko turned toward it immediately, his attention snapping back to the vessel and the search that had brought him here. He informed Iroh that they needed to speak with the captain before nightfall and started toward the doorway. Iroh rose more slowly, taking time to thank Mara for the tea and promise that he would visit again before they sailed. Mara caught his sleeve as he passed, and something unspoken moved between them before she released it.
Zuko paused by the entrance and looked back toward me. "Keep your heel down," he said, in a tone that made it sound less like advice than an order he expected to be obeyed. I assured him that I would, and he disappeared into the lane before I could think of anything cleverer to say. Iroh lingered a moment longer, looking from my notebook to the practice yard. "You have a curious way of inviting someone to become your teacher," he said mildly, and I felt a sudden desire to examine the floor.
I looked up again because pretending not to understand would have been insulting to both of us. "He knows more than I do," I answered, choosing honesty over an elaborate defense. "And I think he likes it when somebody asks him about something he's good at." Iroh studied me for a moment, then smiled in a way that suggested he hadn't been asking for the answer so much as seeing whether I'd give it. "He does have a great deal worth teaching," he said. "Perhaps you will both remember that."
Then he followed his nephew into the evening street. Mara remained by the doorway until the two figures disappeared around the bend, and I saw her hand close briefly against the cloth at her waist. When she turned back, the hard, practical expression I'd come to know had returned, though she seemed a little distracted. She informed me that I was done training for the day and had better find the guesthouse before Pathik decided I'd been swallowed by the harbor. I glanced toward the old man, who was already smiling at that suggestion, and realized I had been so caught up in the visit that I'd forgotten he'd been waiting patiently through most of it.
On the way to the guesthouse, Pathik waited until we'd reached a quieter street before asking whether I'd enjoyed meeting the prince. I thought about Zuko's scar, his impatience, and the unexpected care he'd taken in correcting a stranger's basic form. "He's difficult," I said eventually, "but he actually explained things when I asked the right questions." Pathik nodded, apparently unsurprised, and asked whether I'd been careful to listen rather than merely find the next question that would keep him talking. I admitted that I'd done a little of both, which earned me a look of gentle amusement.
"You understand people more quickly than you sometimes understand your own feet," he observed, stepping around a broken paving stone. I laughed and told him that people were more interesting than footwork, though the argument felt less convincing after my near fall that morning. He reminded me that understanding a person's feelings didn't give me the right to use them without care, and I knew exactly which part of the afternoon he meant. I told him I hadn't tried to hurt Zuko or make him foolish, only to give him a reason to show me what he knew. Pathik said he believed me, but that the distinction was worth remembering whenever I found myself capable of influencing someone.
We reached the guesthouse before the lanterns were fully bright. Its owner recognized Pathik from previous visits and gave us a simple room overlooking a narrow courtyard, with two sleeping mats and a little table beneath the window. Dinner was rice, grilled fish, and vegetables seasoned with herbs I couldn't identify, all of which I ate with enthusiasm. Pathik asked whether I'd like to play another round of the board game the guesthouse owner kept in the common room, but my legs were tired and my head was full of things I wanted to remember. I declined, promising that I would lose to him another evening.
While he prepared for sleep, I opened my notebook to the page where I'd sketched the kalimba. The little marks I'd made for the notes looked absurdly simple beside the careful drawings of firebending stances, and I tried humming the tune under my breath to see whether they still worked. It returned easily, carrying the strange tender feeling that had surprised me earlier in the workshop. I thought of the seven girls in the portrait, Mara's hand resting against its frame, and the way Iroh had embraced her without asking for an explanation. For a moment, I wondered how many families in the Fire Nation were kept apart by the decisions of people who believed they had a right to decide where others belonged.
I didn't need another grand theory about freedom to know that I disliked it. I'd spent enough of my earlier life imagining other worlds to understand how much people depended on being able to choose small things for themselves, and Mara had lost choices that should have belonged to her. I looked at the little shell Tavi had carved and remembered how freely he'd given it away, certain that a friendship could continue even after a journey separated us. I hoped Mara would someday have that kind of choice with her daughters, whether they came to Keshan or she found a way to see them somewhere else. I closed the notebook before my thoughts became too heavy for the hour.
Pathik was sitting beside the window, looking out toward the harbor lights. I asked whether he knew anything about Prince Zuko, and he answered that he knew a little of the prince's exile and the search that had taken him across the world. He spoke carefully, as though aware that politics could make strangers' lives dangerous when discussed carelessly, and said the young man seemed to carry a great burden for someone his age. I didn't tell him how much I knew about the source of that burden. Instead, I asked whether someone could become good at teaching while they were still struggling to learn things themselves.
Pathik considered the question before saying that teaching often revealed what a person understood and what they had only memorized. He reminded me of the little mechanical models I'd built for the Hall of Whispering Winds and how many problems I'd discovered only when I tried to explain how the pieces moved. I thought about Zuko's sharp corrections, the certainty with which he'd described a simple shift of weight, and the almost reluctant attention he'd given me once he realized I was listening. Perhaps explaining the basics would do him some good, even if he never wanted to admit it. The thought stayed with me as the guesthouse settled into sleep.
The next morning, I woke to a gull pecking at something on the windowsill. It regarded me with offended dignity when I sat up, then flew away before I could determine what treasure had drawn it there. Pathik was already awake and preparing our things, and he informed me that Bera expected to leave after midday once the merchants finished loading his cargo. That left us several hours to collect the remaining supplies and visit Mara before returning to the temple. I washed, dressed, and attempted to make my hair behave with a cord that had apparently spent the night tangling itself.
We reached the workshop while the morning market was still finding its rhythm. Mara was placing several newly fired pieces on the front shelves, and Ren was inspecting a tray with the grim expression of someone expecting to find another failure. He looked up when we entered and announced that my turtleduck had survived the kiln, which I regarded as a triumph of artistry over unfair criticism. Mara handed me the little creature without ceremony, warning me that its crooked foot was now permanent and that the glaze on its back had come out darker than she'd intended. I turned it in my hands and found it every bit as ugly and wonderful as I'd hoped.
I thanked her properly, and she told me not to make a fuss. The little turtleduck had a rough brown body, a faint blue patch along its back, and a head that tilted toward one side as though listening to a distant conversation. I placed it carefully inside my bag between my folded cloth and notebook, where it would be protected from the boat's movement. Mara watched me arrange it with a look that threatened to become affectionate before she disguised it by telling me not to break the thing on the way home. I promised to try, which earned me a warning that this was not a particularly reassuring answer.
Iroh arrived soon afterward, accompanied by Zuko and a sailor carrying a small bundle of documents. The prince looked as though he'd already been awake for hours and had enjoyed very little of the experience. Iroh, by contrast, greeted Mara with the cheerful satisfaction of someone who'd finally found a good cup of tea in an unfamiliar place. He spoke briefly with Pathik about the ship's departure plans and explained that the captain had been able to replace the damaged galley fittings, though another inspection would keep them at anchor until evening. Then he turned toward me and asked whether I'd be willing to show him the flame Mara had described.
I was nervous in a way I hadn't been the previous day. Zuko stood nearby with his arms folded, and I was painfully aware that my greatest achievement remained a fire no larger than an ordinary candle. Iroh didn't seem concerned about how impressive it would look, however, and Mara insisted that we follow the same safety rules we'd used before. We moved into the practice yard, cleared the area, and made certain nothing fragile remained within reach. I took my stance, listened once to the faint sounds of the street beyond the wall, and tried to remember the connection between breath and movement that Zuko had demonstrated.
The flame appeared on my first attempt, small and orange and trembling slightly above my palm. I kept my heel anchored, allowed my shoulders to relax, and breathed steadily while it burned for three measured breaths. I felt the beginning of a fourth, but the flame had already started to weaken, so I let it vanish instead of forcing it to remain. It wasn't a spectacular performance, and my fingers were warm when I lowered my hand, but I hadn't stumbled or lost control. Mara nodded once, which from her was practically a celebration.
Iroh watched with his hands folded comfortably over his stomach. He asked when I'd first discovered I could produce fire, and I answered that I'd been experimenting for a little while before meeting Mara. He followed with questions about whether the warmth felt difficult to sustain, how I recognized when my breathing became strained, and which movements felt most reliable. I answered honestly where I could and admitted when I wasn't certain, taking care not to volunteer anything about the cold technique I kept separate. His questions were surprisingly practical, and I found myself wishing I'd met him weeks earlier.
Zuko interrupted when I described the point at which my flame began to tremble. He said I'd been changing the angle of my wrist and probably drawing attention away from my breathing as a result. I tried the empty-handed movement again, and he corrected my elbow with an impatient gesture that was nevertheless precise. He then demonstrated the form himself, without producing fire, so I could see the relationship between the arm and the shifting stance. I listened carefully, and he seemed to forget for a few moments that he'd objected to having an audience.
Iroh's smile broadened as he watched. "It seems you remember the foundations very well, Prince Zuko," he remarked, and the prince looked immediately suspicious of the compliment. Zuko replied that every firebender ought to know those things, which gave Iroh the opening he appeared to have been considering. The older man agreed and said that remembering a principle well enough to demonstrate it patiently was a different skill from using it in battle. I caught the slightest change in Zuko's expression and realized that Iroh had been watching the two of us more closely than I'd thought.
"This boy needs a teacher who can give him more than an occasional afternoon," Iroh said, looking toward Mara and then Pathik. "Mara has offered him a good beginning, but it is difficult to build upon one lesson when the next depends on whether a fisherman happens to be sailing in the right direction." Mara nodded reluctantly, admitting that her work couldn't be abandoned whenever I wanted to practice. Iroh turned toward Zuko with an expression of mild curiosity. "And you, nephew, have just shown that explaining the basics can sharpen your own understanding. There may be some value in sharing part of our training."
Zuko stared at him as though he'd suggested bringing the entire village aboard the ship. "No," he said, and then added that they were searching for the Avatar, not running a school. Iroh agreed that the search remained important, but pointed out that it involved long stretches at sea during which they trained, waited for supplies, and argued about tea. Another student would not prevent Zuko from practicing, and perhaps teaching a beginner would remind him of details he tended to rush past. Zuko looked toward me, clearly annoyed that I'd become the subject of a decision he hadn't agreed to discuss.
I didn't smile, because that would have been disastrous. Instead, I told him I understood if he didn't want someone interfering with his lessons and that I was grateful for the time he'd already spent helping me. There was no need to pretend that his search mattered less than my training, and I had no intention of turning myself into an obligation he couldn't refuse. Zuko's irritation eased by a fraction when I acknowledged that, although he still looked far from pleased. Iroh regarded me with the quiet amusement of someone who'd noticed a careful move on a board.
"I would teach Jinx," Iroh clarified, turning his attention back to Zuko. "He would train alongside you when the exercises suit both of you, not replace your lessons or become your responsibility." That distinction seemed to matter, although Zuko continued to object that carrying a stranger aboard a Fire Nation vessel was foolish. Iroh said the concern was reasonable and that he wouldn't invite anyone without speaking properly to the boy's guardian. Pathik, who had been listening without interruption, looked toward the harbor and asked whether the ship's route would bring them back to the eastern islands within a reasonable time.
The conversation became less comfortable after that, which was probably a good sign. Iroh admitted that he could not predict exactly where the search might take them, although he expected to pass through several ports and return to these waters. Pathik asked about the dangers of sailing on a military vessel and the conditions under which a thirteen-year-old could be kept away from combat. Zuko answered one question rather sharply, pointing out that pirates and hostile ships did not announce their intentions in advance. I appreciated his honesty more than I appreciated the image of myself being trapped belowdecks during a battle.
Mara had her own objections. She didn't want her brother carrying a child into danger simply because she'd been too busy to provide regular lessons, and she refused to let anyone present the arrangement as a favor she was supposed to accept without question. Iroh listened to her carefully before saying that he had no desire to take me anywhere I wasn't permitted to go. The offer would remain an offer, he said, and there would be no shame in refusing it. I looked from one adult to another and realized how different that was from the easy version I'd imagined the previous night, in which asking the right questions somehow led directly to an apprenticeship.
When Iroh asked what I wanted, I answered after thinking for a moment. I wanted to learn firebending properly, and the chance to study with him was too valuable to dismiss simply because traveling would be inconvenient. But I also wanted to return to the Eastern Air Temple, because Pathik and the island had become important to me in ways I couldn't explain to a stranger. I said I'd need a firm return date rather than a vague promise that someone might bring me home eventually. Iroh nodded, while Zuko looked surprised that I wasn't attempting to leave with them immediately.
"Then we should begin there," Iroh said. "You and Guru Pathik can decide what you are comfortable with, and I will speak with my captain about whether the ship can honor those conditions." He offered to send a messenger to the temple once they'd settled the arrangements and assured us that he would not ask me to give up my home in order to learn from him. The words pleased me more than I expected, because I had been wondering how to explain that part without making it sound childish. Pathik thanked him for taking the concern seriously but made no commitment on my behalf.
Zuko had remained quiet long enough that I began to wonder whether he'd accepted defeat. Then he turned toward me and told me that if I ever did come aboard, I should forget about using training as an excuse to chatter through every lesson. I replied that I could be quiet when something was interesting enough, which was almost true, and he gave me a skeptical look. Iroh laughed openly, while Mara warned that Zuko would discover soon enough how much effort it took to keep my imagination from wandering. The prince muttered that he was beginning to understand why she looked tired.
We left the workshop after another round of farewells. Mara hugged Iroh a second time, less desperately than the day before, and made him promise to write rather than waiting for another accidental visit. He promised and asked her to send word if she ever needed help, though she refused to promise she'd ask. Zuko gave her an awkward but sincere goodbye, and I caught the way she looked at him before he turned away, as though she wanted to say something about his scar but knew better than to make him endure it. Ren handed me a cloth-wrapped packet of leftover cakes for the boat, claiming they were payment for providing an afternoon's entertainment at the workshop.
At the pier, Bera was preparing to cast off, and the Fire Nation ship lay beyond the harbor mouth with its banners moving in the breeze. I watched it for a moment while helping Daro secure a basket, trying to imagine living aboard for several weeks. There would be cramped rooms, strict schedules, sailors who didn't know me, and a prince whose temper might become considerably less tolerable once we had nowhere to go. There would also be instruction from a man I'd once watched from an impossible distance, someone who understood the element I was only beginning to touch. Both possibilities were real, and I couldn't make the first disappear simply because the second was tempting.
The crossing home was quiet. I spent most of it holding the cloth-wrapped turtleduck on my lap and watching the islands pass while Pathik spoke with Bera about the state of the fishing routes. Once, I took out my notebook and tried to write a list of reasons to accept Iroh's offer, but it quickly became an untidy argument with myself. I turned the page over and drew the little thumb piano instead, marking the notes as best I remembered them. The melody returned whenever I hummed the opening, and it made the distance between Mara and her daughters feel oddly close.
We reached the Eastern Air Temple before evening, when the roofs were catching the last of the sun and the higher mountain paths had begun filling with cool air. I carried our purchases up from the landing and went straight to the small shelf beside my sleeping mat, where the blue-purple cup and Tavi's carved shell already rested. The turtleduck took its place between them, looking thoroughly pleased with itself despite its lopsided head. I stood there for a moment and thought about how quickly the shelf had begun collecting pieces of a life I hadn't expected to have. None of them was valuable in the way royal treasures were valuable, but I would have been sorry to lose any one of them.
Pathik found me after we'd put the food away. He asked whether I wanted to discuss Iroh's proposal that evening or sleep before deciding anything, and I told him I wanted to hear what he thought. We sat near the kitchen window while the light slowly drained from the courtyard, and he spoke first about the dangers of war, then about what it meant to trust a teacher with a young student's safety. He said Iroh had answered his questions thoughtfully, but that a good man could still be drawn into circumstances beyond his control. The ship was not a peaceful temple, and there would be times when the difference mattered.
I knew that already, at least in theory. I'd seen enough of Zuko's life to understand that his ship traveled toward trouble rather than away from it, though I couldn't explain the source of that knowledge. I told Pathik I wouldn't go without his agreement and that I wanted a return date set before I stepped aboard. There was already a deadline in my notebook, even if I couldn't explain it aloud: I had to be back on this island seven full days before Aang came out of the iceberg. We were still roughly two months from that happening, but a search across the seas could carry a ship a long way from Keshan, and I wasn't about to trust our return to good intentions alone. I couldn't tell Pathik why the date mattered, so I told him plainly that coming home on time wasn't optional.
Pathik considered me for a while before answering. He said he would speak with Iroh again, hear the proposed route and conditions, and make a decision with me rather than for me. He also said that if I went, he expected me to write when I could, practice my spiritual exercises, and remember that no amount of cleverness made recklessness safe. I promised all three, though he looked skeptical about the last one, which was understandable given my history with the Hall of Whispering Winds. Then he reached across the table and rested a hand briefly on my shoulder.
"You needn't become someone else just because the road ahead is different," he said, looking toward the little shelf in my room. "A journey can teach you many things, but it should not require you to forget the things that made this place worth returning to." I found that I didn't have a clever answer ready, which was unusual enough that he smiled. I told him I liked it here and wanted to come back, and he said that was exactly what he'd hoped to hear. Outside, the wind moved through the courtyard with a faint whistle that reminded me of the summit.
Later, when I settled beneath my blanket, I tried the song once more without the instrument. The opening was still clear, the question and answer rising and falling in a pattern my fingers had somehow discovered among a handful of metal tongues. I imagined Mara listening beside her pottery wheel, Zuko correcting my heel with the impatience of someone who knew the answer, and Iroh watching both of us over his tea. I couldn't tell which part of the next few weeks would be hardest, or whether the arrangement would happen at all. But I knew where I wanted to begin, and for once that felt like